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We are excited to introduce a line-up of new and veteran Hamilton storytellers for our May 24th event! Whether it’s the grainy, clay dusty stuff or the crud of everyday life, we’re talking about DIRT.

Sarah Leyenaar

Sarah enjoys playing in dirt – psychologically and in the ground – and has discovered treasures beneath the surface of both environments. This is her second time taking the stage at Steel City Stories and we’re excited to welcome her back.

Phil Argent

Phil was raised in Stoney Creek, way back before it was part of Hamilton. He has a wife, a cat, and enjoys the sun, tap water, and working on spreadsheets.

Michael John Derbecker

Michael John Derbecker is a writer and occasional performer living in Hamilton. His stories frequently involve dirt on his hands, but a good 90% of it has been the literal, rather than metaphorical kind. Fans of Steel City Stories will remember Michael’s misadventures meeting Martin Scorsese. Welcome Back, Michael!

Darrell Doxtdator is a citizen of the Tuscarora Nation of the Six Nations Confederacy. He grew up on the Haudenosaunee territory of the Grand River. Darrell earned his Hon. B.A. (Political Science) from McMaster University and his LL.B. from Osgoode Hall. On his Call to the Bar, he refused to swear the Oath of Allegiance to the Queen. Instead, he re-affirmed his commitment to Mother Earth. After considerable debate, the LSUC agreed to make the Oath optional.

‪Darrell continues to strive to be a social activist. In his efforts to “comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable”, Darrell finds that writing, speaking out and singing karaoke are effective instruments in achieving these objectives.

Inge Christensen

Inge moved from Toronto to Hamilton a couple years ago. With improv, writing and art as her passions, she is fascinated with creating stories. She is also a historical architecture freak and so is delighted to explore Hamilton’s streets and laneways. Welcome Back, Inge!

Your host for the evening is Carla Klassen. Carla has told a story for Steel City stories and hosted the Grit Lit event “Excuses” a couple years ago. Welcome Back, Carla!

Darrell Doxtdator is a citizen of the Tuscarora Nation of the Six Nations Confederacy. He grew up on the Haudenosaunee territory of the Grand River. Darrell earned his Hon. B.A. (Political Science) from McMaster University and his LL.B. from Osgoode Hall. On his Call to the Bar, he refused to swear the Oath of Allegiance to the Queen. Instead, he re-affirmed his commitment to Mother Earth. After considerable debate, the LSUC agreed to make the Oath optional.

‪Darrell continues to strive to be a social activist. In his efforts to “comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable”, Darrell finds that writing, speaking out and singing karaoke are effective instruments in achieving these objectives. On May 24th he shared his stories of DIRT with the audience at the Staircase Theatre, and we’re happy to share a piece of his writing here.

A Little Truth

There were those who said that my Tótha was a witch. For those not familiar with the language of the Mohawk Nation, Tótha is the term of affection for “Grandma”. And a witch holds powerful medicine. Further, it is said that among a witch’s powers is the ability to shape-shift.

So, there were whispers that my Grandma was a shape-shifter. That may explain why my Tótha was never what she appeared to be.

Many people were afraid of Tótha. Afraid of what she could do. Afraid of what she’d done.

There were wild stories that seemed impossible. There were tales that told of the power of her protection medicine. Talk of unnatural deaths of those who cheated her. Stories of her skills as a mid-wife; how she saved the lives of mothers and newborns. Gossip on how she controlled the animals. And how, if she wanted, she could cloud the minds of those around her.

Even the police were leery of her. As a young mother, she saw a rabid dog wandering about. Knowing what a threat it was, she contacted the R.C.M.P. When the police finally arrived, they said there was nothing they could do. It was not under their jurisdiction. Rabid dogs are a provincial matter. Mounties are federal. They could only deal with the removal of dead animals.

“Wait here,” she told them. She got her rifle. And with a single shot, she dropped the rabid dog at 75 yards.

One afternoon, when I was around seven, I asked Tótha about these rumours. We were playing Yahtzee and eating her home made pie. She was casually throwing “boxcars”, while I was catching “snake eyes”.

“Tótha, are you really a witch?”

“Why do you ask … ?” Tótha casually replied.

“There’s talk ‘bout you controllin’ the animals. And people are afraid of you.”

“Oh, don’t believe half the stuff you hear. And I ain’t tellin’ which half …”

“You cheatin’ with the dice?”

“Naw … I ain’t doin’ nothin’ that you can’t do. Now … just concentrate.”

I put down my fork and concentrated. First, while I was throwing. Later, when Tótha was throwing. Soon enough, I was throwing “boxcars” and Tótha was catching “snake eyes”.

“I win!” I shouted. Tótha smiled.

“Yes, yes you did. Now, always remember … Never do that if you’re not holding kanikenriio (the Good Mind). Understand?”

I nodded in agreement, not really knowing what I just did. Nor did I really understand why I shouldn’tdo what I just did if I was angry. As with all her advice, it took time to decipher all that she had said and all of its implications.

“Want more pie?” Tótha added. Yes, Tótha was special. No need for a novelty “kitchen witch” in her home. She controlled her domain. And she knew that one way of controlling hearts and minds was through the stomach!

Baking was another of her special talents. She knew how to handle the dough to make delicious pie crust. Tender enough to be sweet; strong enough to hold everything together. Making delicious meals was how she showed her love. It was the best way she knew how.

Tótha helped me throughout my life. Providing what she could. Giving timely advice. She’d say things like, “Now, don’t ya just think about gettin’ a girl ta bed. Think about wakin’ up with her for the next 50 years.”

That bit of advice helped me choose my wife, Jacqui. Unfortunately, our marriage didn’t last 50 years.Cancer took Jacqui’s life. Our little girl, Ksenya, was only six when her mother passed away.

Around mid-December, I dropped by to visit. I had hoped to find her cooking. Instead, she was drinking. Nothing good ever came when Tótha was drinking alone.

I entered the kitchen where she was sitting. Walking across the room, I bent down and gently kissedTótha’s forehead. Like she always did whenever anyone kissed her, she tensed up; bracing herself. You could see her visibly restraining herself. Anything further was an invitation for a confrontation. Tóthawas a mean drunk — with a mean right hand. Years of chopping her own fire wood gave her the strength to be respected — and feared.

I poured myself a shot. “To family …” I toasted. We tapped our glasses and downed the shot.

“What brings ya ’round …” Tótha slurred.

I knew better than to say “Christmas”. Tótha barely endured Christmas. She especially hated to hear the phrase “Merry Christmas”. In her state, she’d swing a right hook, just to knock some sense into me. Instead, I spoke about my little girl.

“Kseniya. She made something for you; at school. She wants to give it to you once school’s done.”

During Jacqui’s illness, Kseniya had reached out to Tótha for comfort. And Tótha did her best. Having had three sons killed in car accidents, she knew the pain of losing family members. There are some life

lessons that only experience can provide. An unspoken bond arises amongst those who have endured such tragic experiences.

“That girl needs a mother. When ya gonna find a woman?”

Tótha may have been a mean drunk, but there was always an element of truth in whatever she said — whenever she said it. No one tells the truth like drunks and little children.

“In time,” I replied. “… ’til then, Kseniya needs you.”

“Whaddaya think she made?” Tótha demanded.

“Probably something for Christmas; I think it was meant for her mom,” I replied, too quickly.

“Some one she can trust. Some one she can talk to”. Her voice trailed off. Then — a long pause.

“I never had any one I could trust,” Tótha whispered. “I needed to tell somebody. But there was no-one I could talk to …”.

A tear formed in her eye. After all these years, she was finally ready to acknowledge what had happened to her.

“How could they? We were only children? What satisfaction could they possibly get?”

Tears formed in both eyes. A single tear traced its way across her cheek. Finding a tissue in my pocket, I passed it to Tótha. She wiped her eyes. Tótha took a deep breath.

“Ya know, we were made to do things, forced to do things; Things no child should ever know about. Things that even a wife shouldn’t be forced to do.”

Painful memories flooded back from the horrible abuses endured at residential school. Especially from what occurred around Christmas time. She’d be told, “If you want Christmas to come, you’ve got to be agood girl.” Later that night, she’d found out what they meant by being a “good girl.” She had been forced into submission. She was forced to submit to another’s desires. No matter how wrong.

For her, the phrase “Merry Christmas” had become synonymous with the dirty phrase “Want some candy, little girl?” For Tótha, the two phrases had become one and the same.

We sat there in respectful silence. Nothing further was spoken. Nothing more needed to be said. The community’s pain was acknowledged. The unspoken family secret had just been confirmed.

The traumatic effects endured by one generation seep down to the next. Despite being a bad gene, it becomes spliced into the family tree. It takes major efforts to overcome this inter-generational trauma.

Tótha hung her head. She was ashamed of her drinking. But she didn’t know how else to handle the pain.

“Look, I’ll be here next week. I’ll be bringing Kseniya. She loves you. She made something special for you. Be good — for her.”

I got up and said my good-byes. No more was said. Tótha knew how much I loved her. And I knew how much Tótha loved her family. But that love was tempered by her drunken binges. Some of the family had tried to moderate her drinking. Nothing had worked in the past. And her violent attitude would only get worse the more she drank.

The following week, I returned with Kseniya. It was the Christmas break. For now, school was done.

The two of us drove to Tótha’s. Kseniya clutched her gift to her chest for the entire length of the drive. It was so good to see her smile again. She was clearly her mother’s daughter, with her round face and long dark hair. Even more, Kseniya had her mother’s generous spirit. Jacqui had always taken the time to take the extra measures to ensure everyone felt welcome and comfortable. A caring nature was the best quality that they shared. A bit overwhelming at times; it arose from loving and caring hearts.

I bit my lip. Who would we encounter on our arrival? A sober Tótha? Or a nasty shape-shifting drunk?

I thought about trying to forewarn Kseniya, just in case. But what should I say? How much of Kseniya’s innocence should be shattered, perhaps needlessly, in preparation?

Silently, my anger grew with those who ran the residential school. How could they? The damage they caused! From one generation of small children to the next.

I felt my grasp of kanikenriio (the Good Mind) slip away. Now was not the time to try to explain.

“Kseniya,” I began, “remember to be gentle with Tótha. She may not be quite herself today.”

“I will, Daddy!” Kseniya replied, not realizing the full truth of the request.

Snow was falling; huge, fluffy, feathery flakes. They quickly blanketed the landscape, concealing everything. It was like a classic holiday moment — in all the senses. Everything was pleasing to the eye, with all the unpleasantness buried out of sight. Out of sight — and out of mind. For a brief moment, all the ugliness of the world had been set aside. The better angels of our nature prevailed.

The scent of turkey dinner filled the house. In the corner of the room was a little holiday tree, recently cut and all decorated. Tótha had prepared herself to try.

Kseniya bounded across the room and hopped into Tótha’s lap. I bit my lip. While Tótha was willing to try, she still had her triggers. And Kseniya had just pushed one of Tótha’s buttons.

“Merry Christmas!” Kseniya blurted. “I made you something at school. I hope you like it.”
I held my breath. Without knowing it, Kseniya had just pushed another one of Tótha’s buttons.
Kseniya gave Tótha her gift. She had gift-wrapped it herself — as only a seven-year-old could. taped up as securely as a hockey stick, with a corner of her gift poking through.

Tótha asked, “Did you wrap this yourself?” I took another deep breath. Kseniya nodded excitedly — barely able to contain herself.

“You did an excellent job!” Kseniya beamed.
It was
Carefully, Tótha opened this treasure. Starting at the exposed corner, she gently tore an opening large enough to slide out the gift.

It was a cardboard collage. Made from old Christmas cards and poster paper, it was a wintry scene of a forest setting. Amid the trees, in a small clearing, a gathering of animals were gazing at a huge star. On the bottom of the collage, Kseniya had written the phrase, ‘ Twas in the moon of Wintertime …” — the opening line from the Huron Carol.

“Tótha, It’s a special message. Just for us!”
“It’s beautiful. Did you do this all by yourself?”

“Yup! Our teacher told us to choose our favourite Christmas song and make a picture. Everyone chose another song. This one is my favourite.”

This became too much for Tótha. She had reached the end of her endurance. I readied myself to intervene should Tótha snap.

“I need to finish making dinner. Wanna help me in the kitchen?” Tótha whispered into Kseniya’s ear.

Kseniya sat up and smiled.

“After dinner, maybe we could play some Yahtzee?” Tótha suggested.

In reply, Kseniya nodded eagerly.

They made their way to the kitchen. Holding Tótha’s hand, Kseniya hop-scotched her way. Tóthaambled along. She was off to finish preparing dinner. It was how she showed her love. It was the best way she knew how.

Amber Wood is an actor and devised theatre collaborator originally from the U.S. She has called Hamilton home for two years and is very slowly making her way through the waterfalls. She enjoys reading children’s books (on her own and out loud via Skype with various tiny humans), listening to stories, and encouraging others to tell their own. Ask Amber about the book she’s writing with her 6-year-old niece or her Current Big Idea Project: planning a 6,400 km road trip interview tour to chat about making hospitable spaces for artists and audiences.

Irene dives into life head first, and figures out how to deal with what’s lurking under the surface as she goes. Four years ago she jumped into living in Hamilton and home ownership; more recently she plunged into business as the owner of a local tea shop. Her personal theme song is, “Everything works if you let it.”

Cass Henry is a life-long reader, writer and poet. She began writing at the early age of 12 after falling in love with Acrostics in the 5th grade. In the intervening years, Cass has traveled most of North America and lived in many Southern Ontario cities, but has considered Hamilton home for the past 7. She is a self-employed IT worker and enjoys being able to work from home as she is a single mother to a 14 year old. Cass says the journey has been worth all the ups and the downs, and she’s excited to see what the future holds.

Anne Thompson is a mother and a grandma to five wonderful young children. She is a social activist, talent agent and laboratory technician…oh and an actress. She marches to the beat of a different drum. Her aim is to return to Jamaica, her homeland and start a production company dedicated to telling cultural stories focusing on cemeteries and their occupants. She believes she is funny even though her kids thinks she can mess up a simple joke… she is okay with that because she makes herself laugh!

Sarah Kam moved to Hamilton for her undergraduate degree in nursing and stayed put since. She lives in the North End where she is trying to grow a fig tree in her front yard. She recently acquired a folding bicycle and has a litany of places to travel, prioritized by how delicious of a place they are. She looks forward to the day where she has the time to understand how magnets work, commit her favourite recipes to memory, produce a podcast, and build a bicycle trailer for her part-time dog.

Carmen says that the older she gets the closer she comes to being more playful, content and awed. By far and away stories have been the primary vehicle to bring about this transformation.

Saturday night’s host is:

Edith Chavez was born and raised in Mexico City. She now lives in Hamilton where she is trying to adapt to the new culture. With a Master degree of Arts from McMaster University, she is interested in work, education and community. Storytelling has been part of her upbringing and she believes that sharing our experiences and points of view produces identity and creates community.

Ngozi C. Iyamah was born in Toronto, but raised in west Africa, from Monrovia, Liberia to southwestern Nigeria. She is a lifelong learner and obtained her Certificate of Education from the College of Education in Agbor, Delta State, Nigeria. She also has her Computer and Network Support Technician certificate from Humber College and her Webmaster certificate from Mohawk College. She enjoys website design, some programming language and WordPress. Ngozi has a real passion for social advocacy in Hamilton. She has been a member of WHPC Advisory Committee since its inception, in addition to her participation on the SAGE amp Advisory Committee and WAWG Survivor Committee. In her spare time, if she finds some, she enjoys singing, dancing, painting and arts and crafts.

MaureenMallon is a mom of four amazing, wonderful children. She is a member of WAWG (Women Abuse Working Group) Survivor Committee. Maureen enjoys walks in nature, especially to waterfalls.

TammyHudgins has lived in Hamilton all her life. She left her husband five years ago. She is a single mother to a wonderful fifteen-year-old daughter. Tammy lives with depression and anxiety so she needs to push herself to try new things and remind herself that she can do anything if she tries and puts one foot in front of other.

Lisa Hunt wouldn’t call herself a storyteller, though her friends probably would. This is her third time telling a story at Steel City Stories. She is only slightly less terrified to be on stage now than she was the first time. Lisa works in a bookstore, loves to read and has shared the story of her mental health journey several times. She is honoured to have been able to assist with the Willow Storytelling Program for the second year, helping others to tell their stories.

BiancaMallon is 24 years old and currently a Graphic Design: Illustration student at Mohawk College. She is a motivational speaker with TAMI (Talking About Mental Illness) and the founder of EASE (End All Silence Everywhere), which is an anti-bullying/anti-abuse group. Bianca is a soprano singer with Chorus Hamilton, and a six bass pan player with HYSO (Hamilton Youth Steel Orchestra). She loves nature and anything artsy; and also loves to help people.

Anne J grew up in a small, rural community close to Sarnia. After high school, she enrolled in the Occupational and Physiotherapy Assistant program at Humber College. She and her husband have two boys and enjoy exploring Hamilton and visiting its numerous waterfalls. Anne volunteers in her church community and in the greater community with refugees. She is a natural conversationalist and thoroughly enjoys meeting new people and hearing their stories. She also enjoys weightlifting; relishes a good book; and recently fell in love with the sport of rock-climbing.

Friday night’s host is:

Layal Haidari is a dancing queen turned business owner. Following a 10-year career in TV and film documentary, Layal and her partner Jonny launched the Jonny Blonde food truck together in 2013. They now spend their time catering weddings, corporate functions and putting on special events around the city. Layal produced and directed a documentary film “House of God,” which screened at TIFF Bell Lightbox in 2011, and a series of music videos for her singing, rapping alter-ego “Roxi Diabla.” She is currently working on new material for a debut album; look for the music video for “Arabian Dream Queen” on YouTube.

This year marks the third year of the eight-week Willow Storytelling Program. Participants report they have gained confidence and learned public speaking skills, enabling them to share their stories. Maureen M., a second year participant, said the program “gave me the opportunity and strength to share my truth… definitely a healing journey”.

According to Paula, the Wellness Facilitator at Good Shepherd Women’s Services, the program “has provided a safe place for women to tell their story. Women look forward to this opportunity to be heard within a nurturing and creative environment. The growth that women have been able to take away from this workshop is unmeasurable. Women who have been silenced for so long have now been able to feel free and empowered.”

For the past two years the Willow Storytelling Program has received financial support from a Creative Arts Fund grant from the Hamilton Community Foundation. The grant pays for the storytelling instructor fee and helps supply participants with bus tickets, dinner prior to the workshop, and the venue for the event. Unfortunately, the grant will not be available next year and a new source of funding will be needed.

Doors for the event open at 6pm and the stories start at 7:30pm. Tickets are $10 in advance or $12 at the door. Advance tickets for both shows are $18. Tickets are available here.